Falling Heavenward: A Good Omens Crowley/Aziraphale Fanfic

Strangers when we meet

London, Present Day

There was a blue Aston Martin sports car parked next to the Bentley. Devoted to the Bentley as he was, anxious as he was, Crowley couldn't help a sideways glance at the magnolia leather seats and dark walnut veneer. Sleek, expensive, somehow smug. He hated it.

Crowley opened the Bentley passenger door with a chivalrous flourish. Not something he often did, but after all, these were the first steps in a Seduction. Not any old seduction, but The Seduction. He had to start it off right, even if the the fact that the person being ushered in was a part time second hand book dealer in an ancient coat was gaining him some funny looks from passers by. They just didn't recognise transcendent loveliness when they saw it.

"It's a very nice car," Aziraphale said, with some relief. "Very well kept. You may find that these old girls don't keep up with the traffic very well, though, if you haven't been down here for a while."

"Oh, I'm not worried about that," Crowley said cheerfully, rifling through his ancient CDs. Handel's Water Music. Pompous, but Aziraphale liked it, and possibly it would trigger some memories in Aziraphale of—of what? Crowley could remember leaving Tadfield Airport in a stolen military jeep with a tape deck and a cassette of Water Music, but he could also remember a bus that was supposedly going to Oxford. He had to clamp down on a sense of panic.

Aziraphale wouldn't remember either memory. Crowley had to remember for both of them. It was not a jeep, it was a bus. They had sat side by side and their thighs and shoulders had pressed together. Sometimes the back of their hands had brushed and somehow everything had seemed too fragile and precious to risk turning his hand over and grasping that of Aziraphale. Don't go too fast... Stupid, stupid. He should have taken advantage of the situation, taken Aziraphale's hand, and kissed it. Just like Aziraphale had kissed his own fingertips just last night.

Crowley couldn't afford to become confused about his memories. He couldn't afford to lose his reference points. He turned his head slightly, to focus on the profile beside his. Such a nice profile, good strong nose, generous ears, firm chin, loving mouth, reliable yet mellow. A reference point solid enough to build a reality on. It would be all right.

And after all, She had been surprisingly gracious. She could have summoned him back to Heaven and commanded him to be righteous. Instead, She had left him clothes, his plants, his Bentley, even his CDs. All the world was familiar, except for him, and Gabriel. Aziraphale was still Aziraphale. He was sure of it.

Crowley relaxed and chose another CD. Bach. They both liked Bach. Air on a G String, a romantic cliche, and romantic cliches were probably a good idea.

"Oh, lovely," Aziraphale said with little luxuriant sigh, and Crowley repressed a triumphant smile as they pulled out, watching the speedometer for the first time in the Bentley's life.

Aziraphale shifted in his seat a few times, peeping curiously across, biting his lip. Perhaps he was just worried about the lack of seat belts. Crowley tried to focus on the road like a model angelic driver, and waited for him to speak.

"Why did you bring me a pot plant? I've been wondering about it."

"That's what humans do, isn't it? Bring vegetation, when they want to renew an acquaintance with an old friend."

"I think flowers are more usual."

"I'll bring you a dozen red roses next time, then." Crowley let the corners of his lips tilt up, and from the corner of his eye, he was sure he saw Aziraphale flush.

He had never given Aziraphale flowers. Why not? He should have buried him in red and coral roses. Crowley had a hand in inventing floriography and tussie-mussies as useful ways to promote secrets and sins and elopements, yet it had never once occurred to him to give Aziraphale a giant bunch of camellias, red for fiery love, pink for longing, white to tell his friend he was adorable to him. Why hadn't he? Even if the words had been difficult for a demon, that was what the language of flowers was supposed to do, speak the unspoken. Red carnations for I love you, jonquils for return my affection. Enough flowers, and even Aziraphale wouldn't have been able to pretend not to read the messages.